


8-9-3

by bastardbones



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Yakuza, Asian Fetishism, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Emotional Sex, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Forced Feminization, Gang Violence, Human Trafficking, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Misgendering, Prostitution, Self-Discovery, Sex Work, Shibari, Tattoos, Torture, Trans Keith (Voltron), Trans Male Character, Transgender Fetishism, Transphobia, aka trans pain the fic also they wear suits
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-11-30 23:17:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11473734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bastardbones/pseuds/bastardbones
Summary: His father wasn't a particularly difficult man to please. It was simple - all he had to do was be the person he was expected to be. However, as the years go on, there's a thin line that becomes impossible to differentiate: does the trouble find him or does he find the trouble?





	8-9-3

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe no one has written a Sheith Yakuza AU yet.
> 
> I can't believe I have to be the one to do it.

He is born twice.

The first time: at a busy hospital in Seoul, his mother pressing dry lips to his forehead, murmuring words he can’t quite understand yet, meaning as indescribable as the way air smells, how skin feels, how the world turns. He keeps his eyes closed for a long time and his mother worries they may never open. His mannerisms border that of a stillborn rather than of a living, breathing baby, and perhaps he won’t survive at all. His presence is a whole month earlier than expected, and he is something of a fragile thing, almost too small to have his existence rationalized. His mother kisses him again.

Eventually, he does open his eyes, to the relief of his mother and the expectation of his father.

The first thing he ever sees is a door. Like his birth, however, he does not remember this -- obviously, it is beyond his perception, his comprehension, retention, and above all, a hapless unimportance.

His mother names him  _Keiko_ (“lucky child”) and it is a complacent irony for future dilemmas, a life sealed for anything but. His last name, Kogane, a gift from his father, to his mother, to him.

He is a quiet child, often playing alone, secluded from other children his age by their parents for reasons he is too sheltered to understand. When he exhausts himself with outdoor activities (a rare occurrence, often times it is the boredom in watching how the clouds slowly billow and change shape in the sky) he resigns himself to his mother’s side. He watches her chop vegetables before dropping them into boiling water, lightly chides him about keeping his hands off the counter, especially when there is a knife around. He thinks the knife is pretty, how it catches the light and his mother’s reflection.

She is a gorgeous woman, her complexion stark yet muted, and often times he is wanting to pull the tie from her dark hair, to watch how it will cascade along her shoulders and down her back. Sometimes, his father will actually come home. Sometimes, other men will walk in with him, but there is something unsettling about these men. They make comments about what a beautiful child he is. They ask why he hides behind the couch. His mother tells him to please be nice to these men, she squeezes his hand then serves them all dinner.

When he is 10 years old, he rides in an airplane for the first time. The flight is only an hour and his mother continuously scolds him as he more or less presses his face into the small, reinforced window. He has never seen the sky from such a height and the sense of awe that envelops him is magical. Suddenly, the clouds aren’t so boring. He feels like he is flying, like he is the one controlling the plane until his father makes a discontented noise deep in his throat. He does not have to look to sense those dissatisfied eyes. He sits, quiet, obedient and failing to doze into sleep.

They move to Japan.

Fukuoka is their new home, it is where his father lived before meeting his mother. The ocean is nearby, can be seen from a rooftop, although it is deceptively beautiful; in the evening it blackens, rumbles, and could very well swallow them all. He hardly gives it a chance, resents the country if only because it is not his own, struggling to properly integrate. His father speaks the language; his mother partially, and him none whatsoever. The school is different, the people are different, and he is more alone than before, an outcast, unwelcomed. Several children in his class tease him habitually for being half Korean, even more so when he isn’t able to properly articulate in their tongue. He enjoys the English lessons the most because they are familiar and he is already fairly acquainted. He is silently grateful for this one thing that does not alienate him.

He is walking home from school one day when a boy on a black bicycle seamlessly curves to the side of the street, slowing down then speeding up to meet his stubborn pace. The boy says nothing for a moment, simple watches him struggle with a burdensome bag and tap along the road impatiently. He is busy trying to ignore the boy, the presence unsettling him and doesn’t even dare to look in his direction. Finally, the boy says something. Only a word or two actually clicks in his brain, the rest incomprehensible mush that is all noise and syllables. In response, he says nothing.

“Do you need help carrying it?” The boy says in English on par with his teacher, and that has him snapping his head to the side, mostly in shock. He’s not sure why it shocks him, perhaps it is because no one has once tried initiating conversation with him until now. The realization makes him feel more lonesome.

He shakes his head politely. He knows the words for “no, thank you” but hears his mother’s voice in his head, wagging a finger and warning him against talking to strangers. The boy looks older than himself, and he assumes he must be in his late teens. There’s dark fringe that falls down the center of the boy’s forehead, the rest retaining a much shorter length that he finds envy in.

“I don’t know you,” he says while looking down at his feet. At this rate, he should be home in twelve, maybe ten minutes. He has a lot of homework to do. He wants to lay down.

“I know your father. He’s friends with my dad,” the boy offers with a kind smile and not for a moment does it seem manufactured. “Do you always walk home alone?”

 _I’m always alone_ , he nearly says.

The weight on his back feels heavier now, and this stranger (or family friend, as it may be) is offering assistance, attention, a craving that has become curdled over time. He is so hungry for it, would take this possible risk just to have it, so climbs up onto the handlebars of the bike, and sits his bag on top his lap. It is anything but comfortable, yet the boy easily steers, maneuvers and takes them down the street. He is still too shy to talk, so points instead when he wants the boy to make a turn, however, he moves with a confidence that suggests he already knows exactly where the house is. It is a reassurance he hasn’t made a mistake by trusting this person.  

He is hopping off the bike the moment they get close enough to the house, almost tripping as he hits the ground, but the boy manages to catch him with a sturdy hand, almost toppling over in the process. The boy lets out an anxious huff of laughter before asking if he is alright. He is a little embarrassed, realizes what a reckless little kid he must look like, and completely forgets his bag and all the books inside as he runs toward home. There is a clenching in his chest as he admonishes himself for his own awkwardness, his inability to speak to people or make friends. Part of him never wants to see the boy again, because first impressions are everything, as his father always says, and he failed to even introduce himself. He feels like he messed up.

He gets through the door and immediately senses the foul mood his mother is in. She doesn’t seem to notice he’s a bit earlier than usual but tells him to go do his homework all the same. He realizes he cannot do his homework. His homework is in his bag, in the street, outside, and he  _cannot do his homework_. He starts to cry.

There is a knocking and his mother moves from her place in the kitchen to the front of the house. She is met with the boy on the bike, who gives a small bow of his head and holds out the abandoned backpack. She recognizes the belonging, tells her child to thank him for returning it, and he does as told, but lingers a few moments as their eyes finally meet for the first time. He feels seen.

His name is Takashi Shirogane.

He realizes he has heard that name before - Shirogane. He realizes he's met Takashi’s father (or observed rather, from a secure distance across the living room, before one of his own parentals would instruct him to run along). Both of their dad's work together; they wear suits and the older he gets, doubts either could entertain a typical office job, the hushed tones from adults only feeds this suspicion. It is certainly peculiar, how his parents argue long before the sun has even risen, his mother's words butchered by tears, how she pales on sight when there is a stranger outside their door. They keep him ignorant and sheltered as they pet his head, keep him sated with gifts and toys that eventually elicit no emotional response. They tell him nothing, but he also never asks. He knows better.

However, when he asks Takashi questions, he will always give an answer (even if it is a bit sugar coated). He asks Takashi if he likes living in Japan, if he's been to Tokyo, if he'll walk him home from school from now on. Takashi smiles as he answers yes to all three.

He prefers Shiro. It is a gentle nickname and Shiro's face softens the first time it is used between them. Shiro is tall and strong and will playfully hoist him off the ground. Shiro is 17 years old and normally he'd find such a number intimidating, often wary of teenagers, but Shiro is different. He speaks respectfully to adults, with confidence among his peers, and affectionately to children. He is a cross between a babysitter and the older brother he's never had. He is his first real friend.

Shiro makes an effort to include him, sometimes to the open annoyance of the company he keeps. It's a small group of teenage boys whose faces aren't entirely memorable to begin with.

“Why do we have to bring the kid?” One of them is saying, picking at something stuck between his teeth in a display of exaggerated disinterest. Shiro bats his hand away.

“Because I said so,” Shiro says in a voice he doesn't quite recognize, frightens him somehow, and it's all that needs to be said to sway the group. Shiro is the leader, he thinks.

He is 11 years old when he distinguishes the frequent tightening of his stomach, the flutter in his chest and the heat in his face, to be the symptoms of puppy love.

He has never liked anyone before.

Shiro is walking him home from school and it is part of a shared routine now, their walks becoming the highlights of his entire week (the highlights of his life, maybe). Today he is feeling bold and goes off book as he casually slides his fingers up Shiro's wrist and clasps their hands together. Shiro looks a little shocked, but a warm laugh leaves him a second later. He ruffles the child’s inky black hair, but doesn't tug away his other hand, holds tighter instead, a smile wrinkling his eyes as he leads them both away from the school. He can feel as his heart flutters with the speed of a fleeing rabbit, face red at how close they are, and is trapped in a state so blissful, so overwhelming, his gut can't seem to unwind. It's a kind of high he rides for minutes on end until deciding it borders torture. He stops dead in his tracks and Shiro is jerked back a bit, a soft sound of surprise shaping his mouth, followed by an expression of mild concerned.

“What's wrong?” Shiro asks before bending down a bit as to meet the other's eye. He can't make himself look at Shiro though, instead, his gaze is fixed to the ground as his mind tosses with muted turmoil. He has never been good at communicating the way he's felt, not ever; not about anything. He is a child of silence, of rage and hurt, but for once is experiencing something so unlike it. There is a promise to it and he hurls forward, praying it will not betray him like another note in an overheard song; the dirge of his life.

He kisses Shiro on the corner of the mouth, and the older boy (the man, rather) snaps away at neck breaking speed. They're not holding hands anymore.

Shiro doesn't walk him home the next day.

Or the next.

Or the next.

He's curled up on his bed as he cries himself to sleep for the fourth night in a row. His mother presses the back of her hand to his forehead, suspecting his sudden gloom to be that of illness, and her touch is so comforting he could crawl into her lap. He wants nothing more than to escape into her embrace but forces himself to remain quiet as he always does. It is a self-induced isolation, a personal form of punishment. His mother tells him to get better, so he will get better because he must do what he is told. He must respect his parent's wishes.

Until one day, he doesn't want to listen anymore. His classmates clutter in a petrified mass as they witness the most well-behaved kid in school punch a boy in the face. It wasn't the first time the boy had called him a mean name. He deserved it.

After a fierce reprimand, he is expecting his mother to pick him up from school and swiftly send him to his room without dinner, but instead, there is someone else, someone he rarely sees. It is his father, well dressed as always, and he feels as though he's being stabbed at the sight of those cold, dissatisfied eyes. The moment they are alone together, he panics, so unaccustomed to being the source of his father's anger, and wants nothing more than a swift death. His father has yet to speak a word, and that only exemplifies how enraged he must be. Suddenly, a sob quakes throughout his entire body, but is told to hush - he sounds just like his mother. The tears fall like nothing else, but he bites down on his tongue with a squelch, teeth chattering uncontrollably. The tang of blood blossoms inside his mouth.

His father isn't mad he resorted to violence. Actually, he's quite proud of him for standing his ground; it is important that people know their place, that they don't walk all over you, and so this isn't why he’s mad.

He is upset because his wife was away on a chore and he doesn't appreciate being dragged away from work. He strokes his child's hair as he says this, tucking the locks behind a dainty ear and lifting a trembling chin. _Never do this to me again_ , his father warns like it will be the last and only time he speaks these words.

However, as the years go on, there's a thin line that becomes impossible to differentiate: does the trouble find him or does he find the trouble?

He gets into fights monthly, then weekly, until it is a daily decision between landing a fist or ever seeing graduation. It is his father's influence that keeps him in school, and what a hypocrite he is to berate him. Anyone that makes a living off the weakness of others, exploits their suffering, has no place to tell him right from wrong, not when the world is so cruel, not when everything is so wrong. He hates gangs: he recognizes them in public, how they hide in plain sight, how they acknowledge his presence with a firm look. He’s not a kid anymore, he knows what his father does; everyone knows. Even worse: they all knew before he did. He thinks of Shiro.

Mentioning Shiro is a battle he always loses. His mother only hums in response, his father he doesn't talk to, they only speak with raised voices or piercing stares, and he begins to wonder if he made Shiro up altogether. Maybe Shiro was only a phantom in a childhood dream or an imaginary friend birthed by sheer loneliness. He thinks it might be so. He misses him.

He's 15 when his father's lectures become more horrifying. Instead of stroking his hair, it is tugged harshly and leaves him reeling. His mother covers her mouth, but the shriek leaves her all the same. He is disobedient, this is what he's told. He used to be such a sweet child, he used to come home from school and complete his assignments, now he stays out late and causes trouble. He doesn't behave the way he should, he is becoming a problem, and most of all, he is disrespecting his father.

“Why are you like this?” is the question he’s being asked a lot these days.

He just takes it, when his father yanks at his hair. He is tempted to spit in his face, but knows an action like that would have devastating consequences, so only winces as his scalp screams and his father speaks in that terrifying voice. When it's over, he walks into the bathroom and stares down his own reflection, wet eyes leaking as he takes a pair of scissors to his head. He cuts, cuts, and cuts, until the locks he’s been growing his entire life pool onto the floor. He grabs two large fistfuls of it, stomps over to his father before he can vanish out the door, and drops it onto his feet. His mother, the poor woman, begins weeping as she becomes a witness to this.

“You look like a boy,” is what his father says, tone impossibly neutral, and then, “I always wanted a boy.”

He doesn't pull his hair anymore.

His father buys him a wig (several, actually, all in different styles and natural colors, gorgeously woven and silky to the touch, meant to mimic the once refined nature of his appearance). It is not a peace offering and most definitely not an apology. He is spoiled and his father is wealthy and he could have the entire world too if he weren't such a brat. He never wears them, he tosses every one into his closet to collect dust, considers setting them aflame, but thinks better of it. His mother confesses he is hard to look at with his hair so short, and it must be true because his father says the same thing, only sharper.

“Ugly,” to be exact. His mother stops chewing. “Go to your room - I can't look at you.”

It becomes a small tangent, a summary of what a disappointing child he is, how he is rude and unintelligent, refuses to properly learn Japanese and resents how he constantly bounces between three separate languages (“you sound like a fool”). His father is embarrassed by his appearance, he was once such a splendid child before transforming into this hideous young woman.

He can't think of a clever comeback (it would be foolish to speak out of turn, anyway) so just gathers his plate, thanks his mother, and retires to his bedroom. He screams into his pillow. He screams until it is drenched, until he is left gagging on saliva and choking on tears. He stares at the scissors by his bedside and considers doing something even worse with them.

He hates himself.

He's 16 by the time he's able to put a name to it. He's fresh out of the shower and holding his palms flat against his breasts, presses in and is somewhat relieved as they almost (almost) seem to disappear beneath his hands. He does this for awhile, watching himself in the mirror, contemplating his body. He travels to his room, unworried by his nakedness as his mother is out of the house, potentially for another hour or so. He occupies the mirror in there then grabs his underwear and a pair of socks from his drawer. He untucks the socks, stares at them, then tucks them back into themselves, making a fairly tight ball. He slips it down the front of his underwear, adjusting until it has the appearance of a somewhat convincing bulge. Something sparks inside of him.

He is wrapping his chest in bandages as his mother forgoes knocking and walks in on him. He's never seen the color drain so fast from her face.

“You're home early,” he weakly declares, frozen stiff by embarrassment. He doesn't know whether to cover himself, to apologize, or to jump out the window. He considers all three at once. “Please don't tell Dad.”

Hesitantly, she promises to never breathe a word. He's too scared not to believe her. He makes her pinky swear.

He's 18 when the promise hardly matters anymore, as his face is so slick with tears that strands of hair won't stop getting caught in his mouth, but that doesn’t matter since he can barely speak. His throat is thick with hiccups, and he’s near hyperventilation, completely delirious as he goes from arguing with his father, to reasoning, to debating, to simply begging. He has never begged so much in his entire life, hasn’t called his father “Papa” in many, many years. He can’t be bothered by how pathetic he sounds, how gross he looks, or how disgusting he feels. Across the room, his mother sits at the kitchen table, face buried in her hands, shoulders trembling to the rhythm of her sobs. Then there’s his father, the closest to tears he’s ever seen him, in a rare moment of vulnerability.

“You are my daughter or you are nothing,” and there is a tinge of guilt, of regret, as his father speaks these words to him, his only child. His father has him pinned to the wall with a stare alone, a haunting expression, one that he will remember forever. He realizes this is his last chance to make this right, to sate his father, but cannot manage those crucial words past his quivering lips: “I am your daughter.” If he could just muster that then perhaps his father would forgive him, they could forget all about this and love each other again, the same way they did in the movie reel of his early childhood. Mournfully, he wonders if those are all false memories, the days his father would affectionately rustle his hair and tuck him into bed.

He wipes himself of tears and snot, tries to manage a face of dignity before he says what he has to say. He looks to his mother, still grieving in her respective corner of the house, and internally apologizes to her hunched over form. If he weren’t such a coward, then perhaps he could do the right thing for her, or at the very least, be the right person.

“I’m not your daughter,” he says in a voice that trembles like the fire in his throat, the one hissing in pain as water was tossed in means of never smothering, only subduing. It is the fire that got a taste of oxygen and grew larger, angrier, and more dangerous over time. _See me_ , it says. _I dare you to look at me._

“Then you don’t belong here,” he utters these words with a fierce finality, like it is the ending of a story and it very well may be.

He expects it but is completely blinded sided nonetheless. He’s not sure where to take his feet, considers going up to his room to pack away his belonging, but then where to? Like most things, his father has already made the decision for him, roughly grabs him by the elbow and when he resists, strangles him by the waist to lead him out the door. An inhuman sound leaves him as he attempts to shake his father’s grasp, but it is a useless effort. He’s never realized how strong this man was. He feels so small.

He is dragged out of the house and collapses with his back against his father’s chest, muscles exhausted, heaving for air. It’s almost sweet the way his father is holding him now if it weren’t for the evident struggle that’s left them both sweat drenched. His father squeezes his eyes shut, breathes in the scent of his hair and murmurs in the tone of a dead prophet, “You can come back after you know who you are.”

“Papa-”

“So you want to be a man? You want me to kill you the same way I kill men?” The threat makes his skin crawl. He feverishly shakes his head, if only because he’s scared and it seems like the only appropriate thing to do. “Then go.”

Suddenly, he’s being thrown down but manages to catch himself with his hands, breaking a fall that would otherwise leave his teeth loose  He hears the front door shut and whips his head around at the sound. Everything is so quiet now. It’s like he never stopped being alone.  

There’s a breeze in the air that leaves bumps on his arms, and within the next half hour, his entire body is quivering. He’s not wearing shoes, just a t-shirt, sweatpants, and walks along the grassy side of the street, suspects he’s stepped on some glass after he feels a wet patch on his foot, and soon the spot itches, later it burns. The moon is hidden tonight, submerged by greedy clouds that consume the sky, making the road difficult to follow in the increased darkness. Occasionally, the headlights of cars blind him, and he ducks down, half worried one might slow to a crawl, demanding an explanation. He should be strategizing, preparing a list of friends or family to call, arranging for a place to sleep, planning a strong compromise to propose to his parents, but instead, he wanders. He moves aimlessly, much like a stray animal in search of shelter. He feels so unassociated with the world, empty like he’s been squeezed clean of everything inside of him, all hollowed out to dry like a well in the desert. If someone were to take a glimpse, there would be nothing to find: no blood, no bones, no organs. He has been stripped of his fundamentals.

Where he ends up is a part of town unfamiliar to him. The obnoxious lights and signs of a 24-hour store draw him in and although he has no money, is too cold to keep himself away. He shuffles in quickly, hoping his bare feet aren’t immediately noticed and get him kicked out before he’s had time to warm up. The clerk seems rather dead-eyed though, although it’s not worth chancing, so heads for the bathrooms. There’s a small battle waging on in his conscious the moment he’s given the option: men's room or women’s. He closes his eyes as he decides.

He gets two steps in before ramming into something hard, mistakes it for a wall, but it's something much more sentient. There are arms on his shoulders, steadying him and the sensation of human touch feels weird and unwelcoming. He blinks a few times and hears a voice before seeing a face. For some reason, he expects it to be Shiro (this hardly makes sense though, Shiro has been gone for seven years) but instead is greeted by the concerned face of a stranger (not Shiro). The man appears troubled, asks if he's okay, if he's been in an accident, and retrospectively, it is this display of kindness (or of simply giving a damn) that gets him so brainless.

The man buys him something to snack on and he's suddenly relaying a mountain of grief onto this person, starts tearing up again because someone might actually be listening to him, lending him their undivided attention. His heart swells, all achy and bloated in his chest, and he could cry from it, so he does. The man places a reassuring hand on his back and becomes pliant to the touch that gave him unease upon their meeting. It feels incredible, almost parental, and his body purrs at the sensation. This man looks to be his father's age and without even meaning to, assigns him that role, and leans heavily into the soft caresses that are sinking into his back. Absently, he wonders why something this simple, this good, is such a far fetched dream back at home.

Except there is an arm snaking around his waist now, pulling him in, and it is an immediate red flag: run, go. Except this man could be his father, almost looks like his father, almost smells like him, too, like peppermint and something charred, so he defeatedly shifts closer. His face is burning, his ears ringing, and there's a siren screaming in his head to flee, an incentive that's not kept him out of trouble, but has kept him alive. The man begins murmuring words that leave shivers down his spine, saying: _you must be so scared_ and _you look exhausted_ and then _let me take care of you_.

Stupidly, like a child desperate for attention (even if that attention is a brutal smack along the wrist) he follows. It's the formula of his life, a three step process: he resists, he wavers, and then he does exactly as he's told.

The hotel is a short walk away from the corner store. It is small and decorated with Western decor; the foreign appearance of the room enveloping him with additional unease. He's being tossed onto a bed, and perhaps he is as empty as he feels because his weight seems to be nothing as he lands, head missing the pillows completely. The man is above him and there's a hand beneath his loose shirt, squeezing a breast, and he flinches. He doesn't want to be touched there, he prefers to ignore that part of his body, but the man is all over him. The t-shirt is flung onto the ground, he's without a bra (stopped wearing them years ago) and is bare-chested before this stranger. A wet mouth is on him within seconds, tongue and teeth causing a pronounced gasp to escape. He hates how he sounds. He sounds like a girl.

There are fingers probing between his legs, easily maneuvering with the flexibility of the sweatpants and he lurches away because no one's ever touched him like this before and it's startling, upsetting. He doesn't want to do this, isn't sure if he ever actually did, but struggles to present his case. The man unzips himself and would have to be without sight or reason to remain ignorant of the panic on his face now. The air feels thick, the bed is wet cement, he is sinking. There is nothing to grab onto and he sobs. He feels trapped and useless and once again he is the master of his own undoing and  _he sobs_.

The man translates his crying for not what it is, but for what he wants it to mean. He coos at him, asks if he's a virgin, promises it won't hurt, then kisses the top of his head in mock affection.

“No,” he hears himself croak, reverting to his native tongue without meaning to. The terror in his voice remains translatable. “I changed my mind.”

He's flipped onto his front, gets a mouth full of mattress and kicks at nothing as his pants are torn from his body. He's about to start screaming, except he wants nobody to find him like this, except a hand is roughly twisting his face to the side and claiming his mouth. Inside it, his shriek is muffled.

It's not his first kiss, but it could very well be his last.

He thrashes, struggles, and finally screams as the man tries shutting him up with the deceitful softness of a pillow. He's gasping for breath as he's only able to tear himself away for a second at most. He is going to be suffocated, this he realizes. When or if he wakes up there will be permanent ache inside him, the aftermath of invasion, there will be something wet painted along his thighs, or worse, a tar oozing from his body.

When he won’t stop struggling, won’t shut up and spread his legs like he’s meant to, is slammed against the headboard and almost doesn’t react, so inebriated by the impact. His nose makes a grotesque sound and he can already smell the blood, barely registering the pain as his brain flicks to autopilot. He flails, hands searching for anything that might liberate him. The man flips him again, much more concentrated on asphyxiating than penetrating this time. His vision is spotting, the outline of the room fading into blurry hues and abstract shapes, nonsensical in their arrangement, like a drawing done by a toddler. The ceiling opens up to reveal the sky, the stars, and all the galaxies he will never meet; a million little specks he observes with wet, widened eyes. There’s a pleasant buzzing in his head, mind blanking as it enters a sweet nirvana. For a moment, the drool running down his chin is spurred by raw bliss rather than prolonged suffocation. Nothing hurts anymore, every muscle releases years of hardships, and in an instant, a thousand tight wounds have been unwound. His body surrenders and he no longer has to fight, all he has to do is let go. It is so comforting, so freeing, and he almost says goodbye.

He should have died.

He nearly splits his toes on the demolished pieces of a desk lamp, then slumps against the nearest wall. His breathing is shallow, uneven, and his lungs sting at the reintroduction to oxygen. There are speckles of blood painting his face, he is aware of this as he stares at a convulsing body only several feet ahead. A growing dampness stains the carpet and there is a ceramic shard biting into his palm. He is trying to wash the blood from his hands and takes a solid minute just to operate the sink, a simple task, but is too preoccupied with the tremors wracking his nerves. The water is freezing. It runs pink for a long time.

He should have died with bruises on his throat, with his eyes rolled back and body naked; a corpse waiting to be discovered by an unfortunate room keeper. He narrowly escaped such a fate, but decides, as he examines the ghost of his reflection, that this is how it should have happened.

This is how he dies the first time.

When morning comes, he doesn't scream or let his body tremble with the aftershocks of abuse, nor does his mind replay the last 24 hours. Those memories are that of a past life, one he can barely recall without great effort or speculation. He disassociates from those events, from the hurt, any hint of remembrance readily purged until it is all a sickly sweet bile, until he can flush it away and be left satisfyingly empty. He walks in phantom flesh, existing on a separate plane entirely, an earthly limbo.

He drifts like a ghost, his presence is never permanent and rarely does he linger. He doesn't sleep on the street for long. Garnering unwanted attention is his forte it would seem and men are always hungry, his stomach hungrier. He can go perfectly doe-eyed and within seconds someone will make it their business, will inquire and dote, and that earns him a few meals.

He lures in men with business suits, takes them in his mouth and soon he has made an art of it, decides it's poetry, to have a man trembling and uttering praise, so weakened by his touch. He once found power in petty fist fights, physical violence, yet feels equally empowered by this form of dominance.

Tourists, foreigners, and the like approach him as if he were their destination. His English gets better, overhearing their banter, their compliments, their moans.

He sells his virginity to an American man.

The offer has him reeling; he has never held so much money in his hands. When he kisses the man, he actually means it, if only in a rush of emotional relief, of what the money represents and the possibilities it offers. The man holds him like glass and somehow it makes perfect sense, sculpted from fire the way he is, shattering with a well-placed strike, but reborn in pieces even sharper than before. The man smells his hair, tells him he's beautiful, and the first thrust almost doesn't sting.

For the first time in years, he lets his hair grow out. It shyly scrapes the tips of his shoulders, lightly bouncing to his step and framing his face in a forest of shadow. He had made a habit of keeping it short, primarily as an act of defiance, despite being ridiculed for his boyish appearance. He decides he looks just as handsome with it long as he did with it short. It is the first change of many.

Walking the street takes a toll on his body, his mental health as well, but he perseveres, counts his savings, spends money only where absolutely necessary. He works for no one but himself, sleeps in a different hotel every other week, and bides his time. While his basic survival remains paramount, it isn’t his only goal; he refuses to mindlessly sell his body without an ending in sight. The process is a headache, but necessary, he assumes, for his future and what he wants done. The therapist speaks with him for only 15 minutes and the uncertainty possesses him like nothing else. The therapist asks what his name will be and he says he hasn’t given it much thought. He cannot help his excitement in the beginning, but as the months go on, each session leaves him itching in his seat. After a full year, the therapist signs off on a letter, grants him authorization to take the next step, and he realizes he’s crying too.

He’s 19 when he starts hormone therapy.

The betrayal is complicated; men drool at his feet, beckoned by the image of a gorgeous woman, all soft skin and dewy lips, a well-played facade that becomes impossible to maintain as injection after injection shapes his body into something less frail. It is a slow metamorphosis, one that makes itself known with body hair, the thickening of his eyebrows, the slightest stubble on his chin, but shaving it all away takes priority if he wants to continue his line of work. In the weeks that follow, his voice drops in a way that can no longer be masked with the excuse of a cold, and when clothed, cannot be perceived as anything but a charming young man. He enjoys his new voice, how it rumbles in his chest, demands attention, and discovers it is the most alleviating addition to his transformation. He ditches old clients, expecting their reaction to be that of disgust, but sure enough he draws in a different pool of people, ones who find him exotic, who fetishize him to a new and terrifying degree (and it is not as if racial fetishism is unknown to him, it is his prime selling point to foreigners, like how it is the coy and subservient most men from his own country will exploit, or any man at all, finding pleasure in exhibiting their masculinity). It is unkind, cruel even, but it is the version of life he has come to tolerate.

He cannot reform society, but he can twist its ideals and make it work for him. He’s willingly slept with married men, with sick and dying men, with men who confess their darkest secrets post coitus, and has heartlessly made a profit from them all. He would do a lot of things for money; he has sold his body many times, the number can only be estimated. Suddenly, he sees his father’s face, remembers his long trips away from home, how there was always enough food to eat, gifts to open, and it is maddening. The revelation strikes him like lightning through the heart and suddenly he mourns, he empathizes, he cannot stop thinking about his father.

The thought does not leave him, however, not after an hour, or a day, or even a month. It consumes him like a past crime that’s gone unpunished, demands immediate justice and somehow in every memory, it is his father who plays the victim, while the black-eyed teenage version of himself wrecks and devastates. The guilt could bury him.

He pours most of his savings into the procedure. They cut away at his chest, reshape it, and he is greeted with a throbbing pain and an acute aftertaste of drugs. The healing is a slow process, the scars are harsh and may never fade, but he decides to wear them proudly, as a physical landmark of his journey. He is bed bound, spends most of his post surgery unconscious, succumbing to dreamless comas. It is quiet and the loneliness is pervasive as ever, especially without the distraction of work. The sex is always meaningless, tiresome, but his only source of human interaction, no matter how brief the encounter. He has learned how to fuck another person, but not how to talk to them. He's gone his whole life without ever having one real conversation and it is devastating, the deprivation - he thinks of humanity, of genuine human connection, an elusive emotion. He wants to cradle the feeling, hold it close and cherish it. He realizes that feeling is called “love” and wonders if it is the pain medication that's made his heart so stupid.

He thinks of love, so naturally, he thinks of family again, of his father, the demon that plagues his every indecision. He is torn, truly, cannot decide if his father is the devil himself or just a complicated man he’s failed to unravel. Perhaps he’d been overdramatic, maybe their arguments were mere squabbles and not the death threats he’d imagined. Perhaps the memories have become distorted, the white noise may have overcome the melody and so he focuses on the song instead, censors the vulgarities, amplifies the harmonics…

He misses his dad.

He is 20 years old.

He walks back home.

It's almost like the last two years never happened, as though he had simply walked down the street, spun on his heel, then bolted back home, mouth full of apologies, of sorrows. He hovers by the door, uninvited, and suddenly he is the carbon copy of those strange men from his childhood, who lingered the property in search of his father. Absently, he wonders if his parents still reside here, if they had relocated in his absence, as a means of forever cutting ties. The thought guts him, the hypothetical abandonment, and suddenly he feels foolish for coming all this way.

The door opens all on its own, without the faintest disruption of a tap or knock, and he almost stumbles backward from shock. He quickly composes himself, prepared to explain, introduce, anything, as he's met with the somber face of a man. The tremors rush through him as he recognizes the man to be his father, only with deeper wrinkles, except he doesn't observe him with a raised brow, the stare is an intentional confirmation of remembrance. It is certainly questionable, how a man can be so unfazed during a moment of reunion, involving his only child, no less. It is the beginning of one huge mistake.

He hears the safety go off before he ever sees the gun. It is so appropriate.

“Tell me who you are,” his father demands.

Someone once assured him there were no wrong answers, perhaps a teacher, maybe his mother, or just someone intent on coddling him with bite-sized lies, assuming he’d outgrow his nativity. The recent years have been grueling, every incident of life or death a learning experience, an expungement of ignorance. He has slept on sidewalks, widened his legs, killed in self-defense, every depravity preparing him for the next.

He is none the wiser.

“I'm your son,” Keith finally says.

 

.

 

He is never invited to meetings.

“Watch the door,” somebody tells him.

It is an uncomplicated task, one reserved for the most incompetent; the hopeless dead weights and talentless mutts of their faction. He'd much rather hear, “go stand there and don't fuck anything up” because it is the uncut version of what he is being told and he has a sacred appreciation for honesty. Perusing life along the no bullshit route would be ideal; it's practically the business standard.

He is often assigned the easy jobs, the menial to the meaningless because he is too reckless for anything else - a useless piece of their hierarchy, the lowest of the low, is tolerated if only to maintain a balance of power. The finest mockery of it all is being the sole child of a Yakuza boss, unworthy of rank or title, doomed to inherit nothing, yet here he stands despite it.

Perhaps he wants to make his father proud, prove his worth, or rather, his masculinity, show the world what a man he's become. Perhaps it is family obligation, the debt of kinship, or some other arbitrary commitment signed in blood.

The last year has been one of mediocrity, of doing what he’s told, when he’s told, in a ditch effort to appease his father. Funny, how his parents had once sought to shield him from this grisly lifestyle, had urged him to do well in his academics, avoid a criminal record, so resolute on keeping him clean. Keith has failed, in this regard - failed to be the untarnished, docile daughter. Now, he is the feral son, irresponsible, an unrighteous smear on the legacy his father has worked to procure.

The door opens, ten minutes on the dot, and he straightens his posture, if only for the illusion of productivity. As always, his father emerges first, followed by two others at his side, the less important dispersing the meeting room last. Keith offers a small bow of his head and takes to fiddling with his wristwatch as a new tension fumes the air. He is an insect compared to these people.

Someone approaches his father with easy familiarity, so unlike how Keith would, always stuttering in his step as that apathetic face challenges him. What Keith witnesses is fable: the corner of his father's mouth twitches to reveal the faintest smile, a rare sight from a man so guarded in his presentation. Keith observes the stranger, assumedly an old acquaintance, but never has he seen one so young. The only men who dare breathe in his father's presence are elderly or middle-aged, having dedicated their prime years in service, climbing toward relevance, and Keith is no exception to this, seldom does he share a word with his father in public. The stranger at his father's side cannot surpass 30, though.

The hair is what he finds most striking, tousled on top but fading dramatically to a pinprick length, and most particularly, a blanched forelock. His eyebrows are dark, thick, handsomely perched and contrasting the white strands between them. A smooth scar runs across the bridge of his nose, perhaps the remnants of a burn or sting of a knife, but it fails to be grotesque. He towers Keith's father only by an inch, squared shoulders outlining a perfectly triangular torso, a bodytype Keith can only dream for. He is undeniably gorgeous. Keith isn't sure how long he's been staring.

With less than a look, he knows his father wants something. He is beckoned with the slightest tilt of the head and moves to his father’s side, who lightly runs his palm along his shoulder and if done by kinder hands, might suggest affection. The touch is possessive, screams superiority, and the shiver running down Keith’s spine is a natural reaction. His father must feel it, squeezes the back of his neck, as if to say,  _you know who you belong to._

“This is my child,” his father says, dispassionate. “Quiet, but don’t let that fool you. There’s a sharp tongue on this one.”

“Keith Kogane,” he introduces, withdrawn. His father is quite literally breathing down his neck, already scrutinizing Keith for his reclusive behavior. Keith finally peers up, wholly unprepared by the genial expression that greets him, grey eyes impossible to forget.

Shiro.

**Author's Note:**

> Title may change, I don't know yet. I've been slowly writing this over the span of 4 months. Ain't that some shit?


End file.
